


bachelor's brawl

by void_emissary



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Drinking, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, consensual ass beating i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 04:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13709736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_emissary/pseuds/void_emissary
Summary: Corvo doesn't want to get married.





	bachelor's brawl

**Author's Note:**

> answer to an arranged marriage au prompt sent in to my writing blog!  
> : )

Corvo thought the whole thing was ridiculous and unnecessary but there was no real way to go about it without ruining months of delicate political negotiation. The peace of all of Gristol relied on this plan and Empress Jessamine had personally requested this of him, so no matter how frustrated and angry he felt, he had little choice in the matter.

The plan, as it was, involved an arranged marriage. His arranged marriage. To none other but the infamous Prince Daud of Serkonos. Corvo had never seen the man, but he’d definitely heard the rumors surrounding him. Possible connection to the occult, bizarre cult-like following of devotees, and a penchant for twisting the arms of disingenuous nobles into submission through clever talk and perhaps some intimidation–though that part had proven difficult to confirm.

So, on his last evening of freedom, the night before the wedding of the century, Corvo fled Dunwall tower and descended upon the town for heavy drinking and debauchery that would rival the festivities of the Fugue Feast. For a time, a handful of off-duty guards joined him for drinks, hopping from pub to pub, laughing, smoking cigars and chasing ale with whiskey shots, until even they couldn’t keep up with the royal protector.

By the time Corvo arrived at his favorite haunt, the Hound Pits, he had more whiskey coursing through his veins than blood, but he prided himself on being able to walk straight and swing a blade if the occasion arose. But he was grumpy, downtrodden now that he was left alone with his thoughts, with the reminder that this time tomorrow he’d be sneaking away from his marriage chambers to find somewhere to sleep by himself instead of with the stranger that would be his spouse. His shoulders slumped as he leaned heavily against the smooth grain of the bar, rubbing a finger against the lip of his tumbler. The amber liquid glistened, beckoned, in the low light of the late-night bar. Tempting, but he was beginning to lose interest in drinking.

Glass in hand, he turned, fully intent on finding a dark corner of the bar to sit and brood. Instead, he smashed into the broad frame of a man, his drink sloshing over the rim of the glass spilling down the front of the man’s expensive red coat just before tumbling to the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces. Shards of glass slid across the floor, riding the wave of amber liquid. Silence descended upon the bar, the clinking of glasses and the quiet murmuring coming to an abrupt halt as Corvo stepped back to glower up at the man. His eyes followed the line of a scar from the man’s jaw up to his forehead. Steely eyes glared back at him–and Corvo was stricken by a sudden and intense loathing. Just the sight of this man’s face tensed his shoulders, coiling his muscles in anticipation–for what, he wasn’t sure–but he certainly had a sudden urge to do something with his fists. They tightened at his sides, fingers pressing hard into his palms.

“Watch it,” he snarled, feeling ballsy–probably the whiskey.

The man straightened his back and peered down at Corvo with all the venom of a Serkonian diamondback. Then, he scoffed. The kind of scoff that immediately implied that Corvo was nothing, not worthy of note or breath–and he could see it in the man’s eyes, in the cold regard and callous upturn of his lips. In a quick motion the man wiped at his coat with his worn leather gloves, not breaking eye contact, then turned on his heel and sauntered out of the Hound Pits Pub.

Curious eyes fell on Corvo, oppressive, but when he jerked his head up to glare at them, the pub-goers pretended to be engrossed in their drinks and quiet conversations. They were anticipating a fight and instead soaked in the embarrassment of Corvo standing in a sea of glass.

How dare he away without a word. At the bottom of it all, Corvo wanted a fight–wanted someone to be an outlet for all his anger towards his situation. This time tomorrow, he’d be a married man. And only now with the guidance of liquor did he realize how much he didn’t want it.

It wasn’t fair for the man–but the arrogant walk and casual indifference was just asking for a throwdown.

Corvo followed after him.

A cool, wet blast of Dunwall air greeted him as he emerged into the night. His eyes found the man fast enough at the mouth of a dark alleyway, face briefly cast in orange light and dark shadows as he puffed on a cigar. Corvo approached, scuffing his shoes sloppily on the stone of the street. Liquor sloshed in his gut and for the first time he really, really felt how drunk he was. It was too late to stop–his blood boiled with a frothing, clumsy rage that didn’t care if he was on the tail end of a binge.

There was no real verbal confrontation before fists flew–and whoever threw the first punch was inconsequential. All it took was a look, a silent confirmation that they both wanted to smash each other’s faces into the gravel and they were relocating to the dim, dank alleyway to tango.

Corvo landed a swinging punch to the man’s jaw–and as far as he could tell, it seemed the other man was also inebriated, though this hit shocked them both into a fragile sobriety. A strike flew out, forcing Corvo to bob, just barely grazing him.

They exchanged strikes–both of them revealing their training in their swift, calculated blows. More than once Corvo was reeling back from a hard hit, as did the mysterious man. Rage dissolved away into cocky, assured smiles. It was fun, cathartic in just the way Corvo needed. Frustrations of tomorrow chipped away with every impact of skin–the ache in his knuckles and in fresh bruises were welcoming.

A foot hooked behind Corvo’s, suddenly spinning him until his back slammed into a dingy wall where ‘The Outsider walks among us’ was swathed in white above his head. A body pushed into him, pinning, both panting heavily into the air. They were close enough their breaths mingled and he could smell the cigar smoke on the man.

“Had enough?” A deep, scotch-stung taunt hung in the air.

“Heh,” Corvo snorted, glaring up through his thick lashes. “No.”

 

The next morning was filled with regret.

An hour before he was supposed to be wed in an opulent ceremony to Prince Daud, Corvo sluggishly rolled out of bed with a hangover straight from the void. Pulsing beats throbbed behind his eye sockets with needle like spikes of pain any time he caught too much light. Vivid black and purple bruises lined his cheekbones, circling around his eye sockets. His lip was swollen and busted, an angry reddish purple stark against his skin. As he shrugged on the fabulous wedding coat, servants scurried about him, some patting down his face with salves, others tentatively pressing ice against his face.

“I’m not mad,” Jessamine sighed. “I’m just disappointed.”

‘ _That’s fair,_ ’ Corvo didn’t say. He was disappointed in himself. It had changed nothing about today’s event–except that he was in a shocking state of beaten that would only appall all the nobles in attendance, inciting rumors and speculation. Servants did what they could to help his face. It wasn’t enough.

When he walked out to take his place near the dais where Jessamine was seated, an audible gasp reverberated around the room. Even as the ceremony proceeded, murmurs rumbled beneath the tinny strings of a quartet. Corvo held his head high, fist balled tightly behind his back. Hornets swarmed his gut in angry knots, foot tapping imperceptibly, impatiently. And behind his eyes the throbbing still hammered away.

And then, at the end of the long corridor (as the music changed abruptly into a Serkonian wedding march) the Prince entered, dressed in red, flanked by guards and masked servants. It took a long, heavy moment for Corvo to interpret exactly what he was looking at. Tall, cool steely eyes, broad chest–and a notable scar running up the length of the man’s face. Bruises, much like Corvo’s own, marked the man’s cheeks, his strong jaw, and his nose. Corvo had headbutted that nose the night prior.

Daud seemed to realize at the same moment Corvo did, marked by a falter in his steps that lasted less than a heartbeat. His face was blissfully emotionless as he approached, sweeping out his arms in a bow to the Empress. Corvo took that moment to school his own features–to try not to seem so amused that _this asshole_ was Prince Daud–and he’d very enthusiastically driven his fist into the man’s face the night before. The irony was not lost on him.

They both stood side-by-side and faced the Empress, shoulders just touching, as she began to read off a speech from a sheet of parchment. Corvo was hyper-aware of his posture, his appearance, his throbbing injuries. But mostly of Daud standing next to him, straight as a board, unwavering in his presence.

A sharp, sudden elbow smacked into his side–into the ribs that had been fractured by a roundhouse kick the night before–shooting a jolting pain through his entire body. He wheezed and clenched his side, trying not to seem too obviously pained–especially to the spectators.

Daud leaned closer, and with a crooked smile whispered, “That’s for the groin kick. _Dirty._ ”

Jessamine paused, glanced up from the parchment with a raised brow and gave them both a pointed look before she continued.

There they stood, two strangers–husbands–forced together by law and ceremony, bonded by fists in a back-alley brawl the night before their wedding. A faint hint of a smile creased the edge of his busted lips. It all might have been ridiculous but it certainly wasn’t going to be boring.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on twitter @void_emissary and tumblr @void-emissary !


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